


An eulogy for my husband.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlestoners
Genre: Angst, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:45:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4339922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To love a man is to understand and accept him as a whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An eulogy for my husband.

The exquisitely grey morning of an equally grey day of early autumn proved to be most unfit for any outside activity so my darling buddy and husband Mr. Hiddleston and we resorted to concomitantly taking lazy swigs from our beers, thinking about nothing in particular, starring aimlessly around the room and occasionally letting out hardly concealed, gender neutral belches that would spawn hardly cerebral, reflexive barks of laughter –  the sole noise in our exceedingly comfortable and just as fruitless realm of personal time and space. Needless to say, we found ourselves at that point in our venerable liaison when neither our individual loose conduct nor questionable customs were that loose or questionable anymore, having been long ago introduced to and fully accepted – and on occasion even shared – by the other party instead.

Matrimony is indeed one feature of our mundane living that we have effortlessly slid into, regardless of us having spent an approximate half of the time since we’ve changed our Facebook statuses accordingly actually being in each other’s company. Were we not so intimately muddled together, the two of us, strangers to their toothbrushes and underwear drawers, and I would have perhaps questioned the sinew of the lifelong commitment vows we have taken (not one snippet more valid than that of the prenup we have signed and sealed), but many Mexican meals, an indeterminate supply of carbonated beverages and a couple of shamelessly sloppy, contestably successful lovemaking attempts I’m still here, palatably trapped by the infinite limbs of the dork I’m fatally smitten with, who has somehow ended nose first into my critically unwashed hair and still hasn’t recoiled in disgust. If this ain’t true love, then I don’t know what is.

“I’m really fucking bored, mama,” he groans against my neck making me shriek and ineffectively wiggle my way out of the death lock he’s got me in.

“Son of a bitch, let go of me!”

He squeezes me tighter instead and, to my complete horror, a few of my joints crack under the pressure. I whine and struggle in the same way any feline worth its salt I presume would – my elderly blue-eyed Siberian gazes at me solemnly, as if saluting a fallen comrade. She has on numerous occasions undergone the same barbarities from the generally accounted as a prodigal actor/exquisite scholar/Disney prince momentarily pestering me. But, being a cat and thus a creature taking great pleasure in observing others’ suffering, she does absolutely nothing to relieve me of mine and, all traces of solidarity forgotten, she struts away in an alarmingly accurate Beyonce-esque form.

“Nope,” is his simple answer, a monosyllabic interjection spoken with merely the tip of his tongue and a short pop of the lips. “I love you. And I’m bored.”

“ _Against boredom the gods themselves fight in vain,_ ” I dismissively recite, without any actual purpose, yawning halfmouthetdly away from him. Then, swiftly slapping his inner thigh a few times, I continue, “I’m off to a shower.”

He follows suit.

 

***

 

Donning a towel after getting out of the bath is one social formality that peeves me in such a way that, seeing the navy cotton towel (it’s ridiculous how, even as a damn seamed rectangle of fabric he uses to dry his literal balls with, good that colour looks on him) makes me want to bitch slap some sense into him.  _I have seen your dick, man. I’ve had it in my mouth, I’m fucking_ married _to your dick, so take that off, would you._  However, he insists on covering his alleged shame – although, trust me on this one, there’s absolutely nothing even remotely shameful about any part of his body, much less the area he keeps covered, much to my disliking – the well versed actor who’s done an impressive load of butt-naked scenes in contexts that can be interpreted as nothing other than sexual, while his unabashed wife, yours truly, finds nothing wrong with strutting about the house, wearing naught but a wide smile and a winning attitude. Yet since our household is a mostly nonviolent one – unless said violence is consensual and meant to please all parties involved – instead of giving into the primitive devices of proving my point, I resolve to a just as animalistic but much less malicious method of doing just that, and, as my man is lying on the freshly made bed, clean linen underneath him, his skin warmed by the fragrant steam still lingering from our recent bodily sanitising actions, I crawl on top of him, leaving a trail of light kisses as I go, a pleasantly humming shiver enveloping me once our respective nakedness comes in direct contact with the other. A low purr vibrates into his chest when my kitten licks on his neck turn, from innocent tokens of appreciation of his the elastic tendons underneath the fading tan, to a sinful prelude with no necessary delving into something more than what it already is.

It would be an impertinent untruth to strip my husband of his native traits – he is a man of great character, a great character rooted into the most ego indulging form of narcissism. His selflessness is but a means of self-saturation that came to be genuine in the detriment of it becoming reflex. My husband is, indeed, an amazing actor; he even got himself fooled. The way I came to discover this very fact is by the pleasure my attending to his body gives him, not need of making use of the appendages characteristic of his sex. He relishes merely in my worshipping, moans when my hands roam lazily, with no other purpose but to touch, to  _feel_. Receptive to my unspoken intention, he displays it all, and spread, barren of covering, looks me dead in the eye as I take him all in, in awe of nature and Creation itself.

My husband, the man who tells me he does it – hipbones hidden by taut skin that to me looks like it’s unhealthily stretched and about to be bruised, testament to the rough treatment his body’s undergone, for a man his size should never live on so little – to make it real. I nod, thinking that he makes it real anyway, that however much he’d like to believe he completely steps out of the character, it’s never the same him that comes home to me, but always another, and every time I learn to love him, to trust him, over and over, unable to ever know him fully as he perpetually expands, oftentimes in places beyond my reach.

My husband, the man with many faces, but unchanging eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who didn’t proofread her work (again).
> 
> I need a beta-reader stat.
> 
> But, hey, there’s new Hiddles writing on my humble little page, so whoooo caaaareeeesss.
> 
> Thank you for readin’, sugars. You stay golden.


End file.
